Her lady-in-waiting changed the sheets and swung perfumed censers in the chamber. Gold Dust ordered her away for the rest of the evening.

From the incense table she took a silk scarf and cut it into long ribbons and placed them on her bedside.

Reclining on cushions, she waited, Raven cradled in her arms.

She ran her fingers over her daughter’s soft forehead, upturned nose, dimpled chin. She had prayed for a boy, an heir to the throne. This fragile girl with the mysterious eyes and translucent skin would only be an heir to her mother’s love—and maybe her father’s. Could he learn to love this bleached girl? This girl whose beauty was of another world. Since her birth, in only a week, her luxurious hair had grown to her shoulders, scintillating like a waterfall of pure silver. She traced her daughter’s lips, the plump mouth that resembled her father’s.

The Shah entered with steps of iron. “You brought shame to our kingdom. A colorless curse, an offspring of Jews, not of royalty.”

She glided under the covers, Raven secure against her bosom. “She is ours. No shame, only different, like a rare jewel. Only a man like you can accomplish this.” She reached out Raven to him. “She has your strong mouth and sad eyes.”

She set Raven on the covers closer to him.

He stood bolted in place, his stare riveted upon her. She had nothing in common with his daughters, whom he had lost count of. She was only a week old. How had her hair grown so long and full? Did her unconventional beauty mesmerize him or the force of her curious gaze that followed him? One moment she smiled at him, another she chastised. What color were her eyes? She must be a sign from Allah. A message he could not decipher. He paced the room, fierce sounds rising from his throat, his face dark with anger he did not understand. Gold Dust unwrapped the gauze from her shoulders. He took in her ripe curves and female tenderness. The shadow of her veins trailed her breasts. She had never seemed so generous. He longed to touch her pigeon-white arms, to inhale her scent of ambergris. His daughter’s stares paralyzed him.

Kneeling at the bedside, he confronted her unyielding gaze, red, burning eyes, boring into his secrets. No. Gray, cool eyes, pacifying his demons. He had to confirm her gender for himself. He released her blanket. She was a girl.

He removed the dagger from his sash, undid his cloak, and uncoiled his turban. He would have Gold Dust with all the rage and frustration she had caused.

Gold Dust trembled at the sight of him, the straight-blade hair, the proud cheekbones, the arrogant nostrils, the addictive scent of black roses. She had missed his smell, the wrestling that had become part of their lovemaking, and which had stopped once she had grown with child.